Breathe
by Peridot Tears
Summary: America wants just one kiss, and England burns. Too bad America's sloppy.


_Disclaimer: USUK? :D_

_..._

England winced, his sides burning, as he forced down the bottle of vermouth—it was a small luxury, and tasty enough, but some part of him wished for rum or cognac; rum, to make him feel young, cognac, for refinement. They had opposite effects, but at the very least they could take him to a place far, far away from this wretched war, somewhere up in the clouds where he could be drunk and free and _happy. _Stupid word, happy, he thought, taking another swig. His sides seemed to blister beneath the bandages, and he idly tried to recall a time when a tourniquet could be applied to the torso. Was there even a point?

A fly buzzed in his ear, and he swatted at it; the sound, the proximity, it disturbed him. There were flies everywhere the room, but if the windows closed it would be hotter than it already was. Blasted Italian weather; it chose the worst time to be at its hottest. A tongue flicked out, licking at the sweat on the lips. It tasted sick and fantastic. Slumped on the pillows, England closed his eyes, wondering whether or not he was going mad. He was, he guessed, and he would probably be going madder had he not been shot. The bullets thundering down on him, the bombs whizzing and whirring...he would never get used to it. He had survived the daisy cutter by such a close shave that for a moment he had remembered that there was a God. Maybe.

A door opened and closed. There was a collective sigh about him as the other residents of the hospital turned to watch. It must be unnerving, Arthur thought, for several injured men to watch a single one, walking into a room white like death. And with flies buzzing about, no less—he amused himself with an image of America walking in, that stupid gleaming grin on his face, and then America swallowing a fly. Maybe a horsefly—that would be wonderful.

The tap-tapping of footsteps, and they stopped at his bed, ringing a fevered pitch. Arthur turned about, wincing, and gasped, "Speak of the devil..."

Alfred frowned, his smirk morphing into a well-tuned pout. With the flicks of his eyebrows, there was the faintest trace of concern. England stared a while as the room held itself aloft silent, wondering how in hell that bit of white explosion in his chest was one of affection, or even a distant fondness. Damned feeling—it must be loathing. An image flashed into his mind, dragging a slew of words—words of la Chantefleurie... He scowled, refusing to think anymore.

"England...I came when I heard..." There was a bandage about his head, pressed against his hair, his brow. When he caught England staring, he grinned, saying, childishly, as if to make up for his serious words, "Ah...I got caught in the head. A heroic injury, right, right?" He poked him in the ribs, and Arthur spluttered as his sides caught fire, cursing him loudly. "Ah...sorry about that..." The grin faded slightly, but shone still. A streak of dried blood remained, crumbling, at his throat. Arthur stared at that, his curses fading.

"Well, anyway," Alfred continued, before Arthur could, "I was told that you were injured and stuff, so I came, and I sent the Capri stuff—"

"Vermouth," England said, raising an eyebrow.

"—Yeah, that—I sent it ahead 'cause I know you like getting drunk and it'd make you high enough to forget the pain and—gosh, England, what the hell happened to you?"

"Got hit by a bloody daisy cutter, didn't I?" Arthur said sourly.

Alfred stared.

"YOU SURVIVED GETTING HIT BY A—"

"I know, I know! It was far away!" England snapped. He clenched his teeth as his chest strained, spilling some vermouth on himself; remembering that he still held it, he let it clatter onto the table next to him. Alfred followed the motion, the little splashes, the rounded glass.

And then, slowly, he grinned. He grinned wider than before, and England wondered vaguely if he should call for a nurse. Knowing Alfred, destroying the entire building in a fit of ecstasy was highly probable, but what restrained him above many other reasons was the fact that the curve of the lips seemed almost to radiate, as if Alfred had not smiled like this in a long, long time. Too long; Arthur could imagine him giving one of his men a reassuring smile, even in the face of a night of machine gun fire, even in the midst of gas, hardly breathing through a mask: a light, harried smile, but genuine enough, just for encouragement.

England cursed himself as another bout of warmth spilled in his chest, and it had little to do with his injuries. But even he had to admit—a smile like this, in such grave—destructive, deathly, hellish—times, even from Alfred, was a treasure.

Bloody prat.

"So, England...," said America, almost thoughtfully. Arthur looked at him warily. "You know, France is coming too, but he's been having more problems. But he's coming. And then, I'll leave you alone when you two do your weird European rituals."

"_What?"_

"You and France are both...you're just in the closet! When he gets here..."

"Are you _accusing _me of..." he dropped his voice "_lechery?" _A vein was crawling up at England's skin, pushing and pulsing blue. His shock was only matched by an onslaught of fury—both of which mounted when Alfred laughed.

"You're so fun to tease," he snickered, grin back in place. "When France gets over, I'll leave you two alone." He took two steps back; leaving already. "I need to go now— Hey, England." The fluorescent light over his head seemed to shine ever the brighter and England, face hot, reached for the vermouth bottle with every intention to crack it over America's head before that light had a chance to swell as big and explode, bandage be damned. Even that seemed likely, and his fingers slipped around the glass as he tried to get a good grip. But Alfred continued, with something of a wistful smile, "How about a goodbye kiss?" And proceeded to laugh uproariously as England took a swing, precious vermouth flying from its confines.

"Bloody—" A sudden pain overtook him; he keeled over the sheets, clutching at his bandages, then his cast. He choked a little, wondering vaguely if he had set himself on fire, then lifted himself; embarrassment forced him into calm.

"Ah, damn, you okay, England..."

"Yes, well, I feel as well as ever," he snapped. Alfred's face brightened.

"Then just one kiss?"

"You're sloppy," England said bluntly, letting the vermouth fall back on the table. He would not know, but he was sure—

Well, he did know. When America was younger... England rolled his eyes and fell back, turned his head. "Get out, bloody Yank..." He winced as he felt America's breath come nearer—by God, he was serious. If anything, his breath was sloppy—fresh and sloppy, traces of coffee and burger and ice cream soda... All ensconced in that loud mouth of his. England rolled his eyes, tilted his face a little more towards him—

"Nah." Alfred grinned, backing away. "Just kidding." His eyes sparkled under the light as England sat, dumbfounded; the latter's mind was still processing, even as America reached the door, stopped, turned back and waved—"Now I know you're okay, so bye now! France is coming!"—and left.

Infuriating, England would regularly think; but instead he was busy—dazed—with wondering about that breath of life, and how long it would last out there; how it could stay so warm.

...

_**PT: Oh geez, I wrote USUK. xD Outright USUK, at least the closest I've gotten. Gosh, I love USUK, I just don't usually write romance in general xD And yeah, as you can probably tell, I took from Rinaldi trying to kiss Frederic Henry in A Farewell To Arms, by Ernest Hemingway. I am so sorry, Hemingway xian sheng xD And yes, this is set in the first World War, but it's rather vague. This was kind of fun for me to write, but I'm worried about the structure...xD Yep. Hope this proved to be at least a tad bit enjoyable~**_


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